5. The One Who Grasps Iron (1)
"Is this the place? Where that craftsman from Silla uses water quenching and box bellows."
The midday heat poured into the forge over the shoulder of the man who pushed aside the awning and stepped inside. Beneath his iron helmet peeked a turban, and over his gambison gleamed chainmail and lamellar armor, adorned with an emblem on the chest. This wasn't some common vagrant mercenary you could spot anywhere—no, it marked him as belonging to a renowned mercenary company.
His gaze skipped past Rashid and locked onto the six straight swords neatly arrayed on the workbench. Miracles forged in just three days, perfectly uniform in specs and quality.
"You're Barakah, right?" the man asked, turning to me.
I wiped the sweat from my face with the rough towel around my neck and gave a curt reply.
In response, he stared piercingly at the six straight swords on the bench. The only proper blades in all of Souk Wadi Barada, hammered out by grinding father and son Rashid duo for a full week.
He swung one through the air a few times, then tapped and flicked the blade like knocking on a door. Ching— The clear, ear-piercing ring of water-quenched steel resonated through the forge. The man's eyes narrowed in a twitch.
"...Just as the rumors said. I figured the water quenching would've blown the edges apart, but the grain is this even? Tough as a master smith's jamdiya."
The man smirked at my blunt silence. He set the sword down and formally introduced himself.
"Name's Kasim. Vice-captain of the Desert Claw mercenary company, stationed nearby. Our captain heard the talk about your blades and sent me to check 'em out myself."
Desert Claw. From the chatter of travelers and merchants passing through Souk Wadi Barada during my few days here, they were the biggest, most disciplined outfit in the area. Word had already reached their camp.
"Didn't expect the vice-captain in person."
"You've earned it. Barakah, I want all six of these swords. And if possible..."
Kasim trailed off, his eyes drifting to the Box Bellows beside the furnace. Looked like he wanted to outfit their own smith, cut down on dependency.
'I want to know the principle behind that bellows box, too.' Before he could voice it, I cut him off.
"Selling the swords is easy. But vice-captain, what makes you think six blades will transform your whole company's fighting strength?"
Kasim's eyebrow twitched. I pointed to the crude sword at his belt—dull edge, slightly bent tip.
"Even if your company's famous and armed to the teeth, every man's got a different weapon. On the battlefield together, that's a nightmare waiting to happen, right?"
"...So, if we hand over our gear, you'll upgrade it?"
"No. A wild kid grows up wild. What I'm offering is proper, uniform gear."
I laid out a standard weapon system for the mercenaries smooth as running water, but I had no doubt it'd land. These were men who lived by the sword—they'd get it. Especially in 12th-century Levant, facing chaotic armies and multicultural mercs.
"You're saying you'll supply identical weapons to all of us?"
Kasim's eyes sharpened. He scanned the six swords again. At first, he'd marveled at the quality alone, but now he saw the chilling truth: length, balance, even blade curvature—identical, like stamped from the same mold.
But another question nagged: Could he keep producing them consistently after these left? As a veteran who'd charged battlefields with weapons from countless smiths, he knew even the same smith couldn't replicate exactly on repairs—something always shifted.
"Barakah, you talk like a soldier, not a smith. Weapons vary because men's skills and tastes differ, sure—but mostly because no smith cranks out that volume at uniform quality. What makes us trust you to arm our fifty elites?"
Kasim picked up a sword again.
"If our Desert Claw elites all wield blades of exact length and weight, like you say... coordinating formations gets way easier. No gaps from short blades, no lag from heavy ones."
He fell silent, eyes saying, 'But can you handle our demand?'
I shrugged lightly. "Those six? Three days' output."
Sounding me out on how long I'd stick around, Kasim masked his surprise and ran the numbers.
"Six in three days..."
His eyes flickered. A master smith pouring his soul into one fine blade took days. Yet here, with an apprentice and one veteran, he'd produced six—all flawless—in three days.
He eyed the display again: balance, edge finish, hilt symmetry. Veteran senses said these weren't rushed junk. Rougher than Damascus work, maybe, but the feel in hand was rock-solid.
"If that insane speed's real... that bellows box of yours ain't ordinary."
His gaze hit the Box Bellows again. Not just stronger air—he figured it tamed fire itself.
"I can guess your thoughts, but what's your move?"
I fiddled with tongs on the anvil, pulling a glowing ingot from the furnace right on time. Hammering casually to feign focus, I trusted 30-year merchant Rashid to bite the hook I'd dangled.
"I know what you're thinking, Barakah al-Silla."
Kasim broke the heavy silence. He drew his personal weapon—a hefty saif—from his belt.
"Uniform specs sound great. But on the field, a merc's weapon is more than a tool—it's his lifeline. Fast production with crap quality? That's just dumping scrap on the battlefield."
He pointed my straight sword with his saif.
"Simple terms: I'll fetch my strongest man. If your 'standard' holds against our elite's famed blade unscathed, we'll seriously consider your supply deal."
Rashid froze mid-reply, glancing at me in panic. I flipped the ingot on the anvil with a smirk.
"If ours breaks, take the bellows box too. But if not?"
"Then no haggling on price. And exclusive rights to all our gear needs while we're here."
"Good. Noon."
Kasim sheathed his saif and strode out. The awning rustled, unleashing a wave of murmurs from the market crowd eavesdropping outside.
"Barakah, you mad? That's Desert Claw! Their strongest could rip this furnace door off!"
Rashid rushed over, pale. Hasim eyed the ingot I'd been hammering, worried.
I set the hammer down calmly. "Rashid, in 30 years with iron, what scared you most?"
"Shatter on quenching, or impurities chipping the edge after all that work."
"Won't happen with mine. Box bellows holds the temp, I time it. Water's honest—properly heated steel never betrays."
This was my chance to instill ironclad faith in father and son. A perfect showcase of 21st-century metallurgy crushing 12th-century guesswork.
Promised noon. The forge front teemed with merchants and mercs. Kasim parted the crowd, trailed by a bear of a brute and an aide cradling a silk-wrapped sword.
"Kept you waiting, Silla's smith."
He nodded; the aide unwrapped it. A Damascus steel curved blade, rippling patterns gleaming—priceless at a glance.
"Captain's favorite, forged by Damascus master Asad. Sliced gambisons easy, snapped chain links like twigs across countless fields. Think your sword can stand against it?"
Gasp erupted. Asad was legendary around here. To me? Just ancient relic—flawless instinct filtering impurities, but still imperfect iron.
"Hasim, fetch that sword."
I handed my straight sword to Kasim, gave the giant Asad's.
"Clashing blades dulls both. Strike that iron pillar instead. Deeper cut, tougher edge—we'll see."
The giant sneered as he raised Asad's famed blade high and smashed down with brute force.
Kang—!! A deafening clang echoed through the souk. His arm quivered from recoil—worthy of a named blade. Finger-deep gash in the pillar.
But I caught it: blade tip vibrating, edge microscopically mashed in the sun's glare.
"Asad's the real deal! Gouging iron like that!"
Cheers rose, but I met Kasim's eyes steadily. Hero's turn.
"Vice-captain, mine's no club to brute-force. Feel the flow, cut proper."
Kasim regripped. Unlike the brute, he sensed the balance instantly, twisting fluidly at the pillar's corner.
Shuuuk—chang! Sharper, cleaner crack sliced the air. His skill turned the Mi'yar Sword into a sculptor, shearing the hard edge smooth.
Souk fell eerily quiet. Brute crushed; Kasim dismantled.
He raised the blade—pristine sheen intact. While Asad's dulled under strain, mine's water-quenched hardness laughed off the iron.
To his disbelieving face, I drove it home.
"Battle favors sure tools over fickle luck. Sound reasonable now?"
Kasim handed the whetstone-needing captain's blade to his aide, sheathed my Mi'yar Sword at his belt.
"Reasonable? It's urgent. Barakah al-Silla, from today, Desert Claw dons your steel."
He tossed a heavy leather pouch at my feet. Gold dinars clinked brighter than any hammer strike.
Rashid and Hasim's hands shook checking it. Unknown smith's blades: 20 dinars each. 120 total for six—a fortune, with fifty elite mercs to arm.